


Charity

by honebami



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Animal Death, Gen, Suicidal Ideation, nb ouma, pregame, slight saiouma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 09:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11204967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honebami/pseuds/honebami
Summary: [ fullgame ndrv3 spoilers ]Ouma drowns in phoenix down.





	Charity

**Author's Note:**

> thank you very much for reading !

Rain roared against a mirror-floor as Ouma made their way somewhere, anywhere but home; but of course they were going home, they're just kidding. They pushed themself under the battered eave of a chocolaterie and crumpled together like wet packing paper. The last time they had tried to enter, they froze in the static concoctions, their skin pulsing and cracking as it held steam and magma-chocolate in. They were just here for but a moment, to stop being hurt, to stop being anything.

Posted pages flapped against a bulletin board. A calico cat found, a help wanted sign for the chocolate shop they had melted from, and a commercialized suicide contract. Ouma tore the advertisement from the board. A thumb tack rippled the road as they ran out into the rain.

When Ouma was smaller, maybe eight or ten but who knows, when memories stain and drool like sugar sprinkles in milk; but as a sprinkle themself, they had seen a corpse for the first time. They followed the vultures to their treasure and found her, a dewdrop deer in a pool of rubies. When they were to be murdered, by their home or by their own, they'd become that bloody angel.

Ouma wasn't going home now.

The next time that they had seen a body was when their rabbit died. She was a peaceful puppet who lay unpierced and cold. She’d carved her softly snowed skin from the inside, until her shell crumpled into her; but that was only some projected resonance. Her body was full and calm, wrapped in a towel like a newborn, as Ouma cradled her in their arms. Her head rolled like a ragdoll when they held her closer. Ouma pressed shaking fingers into their own neck and cried for the warmth.

They wouldn't be going home again.

Ouma never saw the body of their cousin after she died. They'd only seen her but once or twice when she was still strung and twisting. She was a bit loud, a bit smiley, the sort who would say not to worry because everyone's crazy in their own way. Ouma winced at the resentment in that candied memory, for maybe she had been like them after all; she'd signed her own life away to be stuffed and puppeted, to die with a stranger's face the way Ouma would at their own funeral, where they would listen from the coffin to the mourning of a daughter.

Ouma's nails punctured through the paper. What did these people do with the bodies? Perhaps they were ground up, like little boy chicks in a farmer's cemetery, for if they had so little respect for life they'd surely have none for their broken dolls. But then again, people always cared more once someone was dead, didn't they? Only cherished once they were set in stone.

Boring. Boring. Ouma ripped the ad into wet strips and crushed them together into a ball of spit. They threw it with as much force as their trembling arm could muster. It floated to the ground. They huffed and stooped to pick the crushed body up. With a gentler hand than before, they flicked it down into a recycling bin. Could a soaking paper clump still be recycled? Either way, it was a fitting grave.

Ouma tucked themself under an overhang of foliage and dug their shoes into slick soil. Rain battered the umbrella-drum of leaves and the scuffling of a squirrel overhead joined in. Its belly fur dipped and dragged against thin branches as it clutched and clambered down the oak. Hatred and death and brainsickness all held their breath as Ouma reached trembling fingers out to that twitching spark. It watched them, waited with them for a moment, two moments. Its nose twitched, its tail flicked, and it bolted in a scrabbling flash. Humid dew washed over Ouma’s skin and stung their eyes. Wasn't this so much more fun? To see what a little spark would choose?

Ouma shook their outstretched arm once, twice, both arms, and beat into a blur of blooms and branches. They flapped their dove-hands as they screamed and wailed into the wet licks of tall grass. What a liar they were, to want to die for the life that they cherished.

Was curling into that ideal of resurrection a death, though? They wouldn't be seen and wouldn't be mourned and wouldn't hurt anyone. They would never hurt anyone ever again. They would shed their skin of angel down, that was all. A sugar cube in milk. Melt in and out, liquefy their body, let someone strong push up through their eggshell membrane.

 

The doors to the team Danganronpa building were the slate gray of an operating room. Ouma hauled them open and hid their eyes from the unpainted dolls that lined the halls. Ouma was one of them now; someone waiting to be jointed and strung.

They sidled into the line after a boy who was a gull in oil. His clammy hand twitched and trembled next to them. Without thinking, without being, they wrapped their own hand around his.

"...What are you doing?"

Ouma flinched at the stare of his molten-honey eyes. "Ah, I-I'm so sorry!" They tried to pull their hand back, but stronger fingers rooted through theirs.

"You don't need to let go. Are you scared? You're pretty cute, so I'll let you hold my hand." The boy let out a giggle that was like the trot of a horse. "You'll be an easy victim. If we both get in, I'll kill you gently, okay?" He squeezed their hand with a grip that was too hot and too slick.

Ouma bit their lip; it wasn't the sheepwool softness they'd imagined for their first time holding hands with another boy. But they squeezed his hand back. "O-Okay," they lied.

When it was time to walk into his grave, the boy left with a last firm squeeze and a swirling bloodlust in their eyes. Ouma stood, alone and unheld yet again, and awaited their penance.

 

"My... My name is Kokichi Ouma. I'm auditioning because... I want to- I'm going to- to put an end to it all."

"S-So make me stronger, and smarter. Strong enough to do whatever it takes."

"Strong enough to steal this world away."


End file.
